


Between the Panels

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: F/M, Sticky Sex, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-29
Updated: 2011-07-29
Packaged: 2017-10-21 22:59:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bridging two panels in Spotlight Drift.  Yeah I don't know where this came from either. First and last lines of dialogue from canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Panels

“You’re one of them.”

It was too late to pull back; Drift wouldn’t deny it, even as Taskia’s bodyguards surrounded him. He could fight for it, disable or kill them both, make an escape. He had what he came here for, after all.

No. They weren’t his enemies, as much as they thought he was theirs. He straightened. “I am.”  
Vurk, the larger guard, snarled. “You used us.”

“I paid.”

“You want to bring your filthy war here.” Vurk spat again.

Drift shook his head. “Here to rescue prisoners. Save lives.”

“Save them so they can fight again in your war.” Taskia snapped.

Drift had no answer. That…wasn’t his concern. You didn’t weigh the future against the present like that. They wouldn’t owe him if he rescued them. “It’s not my war,” he said, finally. Truth, nothing but. His war was against his own past.

Taskia jerked her chin toward Vurk, some signal, and the two of the guards lunged in, seizing him by his arms, the other one prying the sword from his grip. Drift stiffened, forcing himself not to react, though his hands twitched for his cloth-wrapped swords. They dragged him after Taskia, as she turned down a hallway in the bar, kicking open a door to a storage room. They thrust him inside, Taskia turning. “Down,” she said, her voice sharp, hard.

The two guards pushed at him, Vurk’s knee driving into the back of Drift’s, dropping him to his knees. Drift allowed himself to go down, kneeling heavily on the floor.

Taskia stepped closer, bending down. “You owe me, Cybertronian.”

“I have more money.” Not much, but some.

“If money would have covered this, Cybertronian, we would have dealt with it out there.” She made a signal.  
“Strip him. I want to see this…Cybertronian.”

He tensed, optics sliding to both sides, measuring his opponents. Vurk gave a gurgling sound that might have been a threat, maybe a laugh, his huge hand snatching carelessly at the center of Drift’s chassis. The fabric shredded, flung uselessly to the side.

“Pretty,” Vurk said.

“Pretty death machine,” Taskia added, mocking, bitter, her gaze taking in his blue optics, the heavy helm, white armor.

Taskia hiked the flimsy panel of her skirt aside, straightening, stepping closer. “Kiss it,” she snarled, her dark, pouty lips pinched in a sneer. Behind Drift, Vurk’s companion laughed. It didn’t matter. There was a way to get out of here without killing them. He bent forward, pressing his mouth against the join of her thighs. She had some sort of fur, purple against her dusky green, in a sleek wedge. It crinkled against his mouth, releasing a spicy, musky scent.

He could feel her eyes on him, taking in the picture. He dimmed his optics. It didn’t matter. He’d done worse to survive. He pulled back, squatting on his heels. She glared down at him. “Not enough.” She turned, her sleek headdress’s heavy hem slapping against her neck. Taskia strode off, returning from the back of the storage closet dragging a chair. She swung it in front of Drift, sprawling in it, spreading her thighs. Taskia beckoned with her hands, and Drift felt the bodyguards shove at him, forcing him closer. One of her long, tapered hands reached between her legs, spreading apart the purple wedge of fur. “Do I have to talk you through it?” she goaded. “I enjoy it; we let you go…alive.”

Drift shook his hands free, even as his head was forced closer. One hand squeezed at her thigh, green flesh strangely warm and yielding under his armored hand. Taskia seized his helm, grabbing at the long audial finial, pulling him closer, forcing his mouth against the soft flesh she’d spread open before him.

It was warm, against his mouthplates, and soft, and heavy with a tangy scent that stirred something in his basal cortical programming, his own sensornet tripping on. He explored, blindly, his glossa tracing up a narrow channel of folds in her flesh until it came across something like a sensor node—a harder little nub of flesh, that made her gasp when he dragged his glossa against it.

He fixed his attention onto that small nub, sucking it into his mouth, between his dentae, alternately sucking and flicking his glossa against it. Taskia writhed, throwing her thighs over his shoulders, back arching off the chair. Her sleek ankles crossed behind his helm, locking him close, as she panted, clawing at the cool metal of his helm. “Yes,” she groaned, rocking her hips against his mouth. “That’s better.”

Drift felt a wash of wetness against his chin, something salty sweet, and he released the nub to slide his glossa down the slit, toward the source. The legs squeezed around his helm, the heels of her boots scraping against the Great Sword’s attachment points. He tilted his head, rubbing his nasal against the nub of flesh, his glossa probing inside her. He felt a growl beginning to build in his own vocalizer, half born of lust, half of a refusal to be humbled, feeling his spike signal readiness. And wanting. He’d forgotten the guards behind him, or if he thought of them at all, wanted to think of them concentrating on Taskia, her writhing ecstasy.

Her hands seized the finials of his helm, her grip hard enough to hurt, jerking his mouth away. He dragged his glossa up the narrow channel, mouth parted. Her red eyes were sheened with raw desire, raking over his fluid-wet face, the parted lip plates. “Take me,” she said, huskily, an order, a command. “Take me, Cybertronian.”

The growl found release, Drift surging upward, hand snatching open his interface hatch. His spike, rigid with arousal, stabbed into the air between them, glossy with lubricant. Ventilations hissed, slow, twice, as he studied Taskia, her wanton sprawl, green silk of her thighs spread, legs falling from his shoulders. He rubbed a rough hand over her body, squeezing the soft globe of her breast, pincering a small, hard nib between his fingers. Another sensor node, he figured, moving his hand to tug it, roll it. Taskia’s commanding, imperious face melted into a startled squeak.

Drift rocked forward, the silver flash of his spike catching her gaze. He smirked, seeing lust blaze across her face, her entire body shuddering with anticipation and want. “Now,” she said, trying to re-summon command.

Drift spread the green folds open with one hand, his thumb brushing, a deliberate taunt, over the swollen nub, then down, toward the opening. He guided his spike in, slowly, feeling the warm—almost hot—flesh part around the hard coldness of his spike. It was strange—elastic and giving, sheathing around his spike, the texture of the lining spongy and thick, not the thin, slick weave of a valve at all. He paused, and then with a sharp thrust, seated his spike fully in her valve. Taskia gasped, hands clawing at his arms, teetering on the brink of too much, on the edge of pain, but refusing to let herself fall to the other side.

He began thrusting, the ground hard and gritty against his knees, her body striking his with each instrok ewith a muted slap, their lubricants mingling, slick and slippery, her not-valve squeezing down against his spike.  
He picked up pace, fascinated by the way her breasts echoed the movement, jiggling, bouncing in some strangely alluring counterpoint, soft, almost fluid and nothing like the hard armor of a mech’s body.

Taskia began a string of curses, oaths, imprecations, every foul name she could think of, lapsing out of Galactic Standard and into what must have been her native language, lust building like a ravaging storm in her body, helpless to do anything but endure the assault of Drift inside her.

She arched up, abruptly, voice rippling into a scream that ricocheted in the small closet, and Drift felt her not-valve shudder rhythmically against his spike, a series of sharp clenching squeezes. He drove through it, three sharp, final thrusts, each matched with a harsh grunt, before his own system released the overload, system surging with current, capacitors spilling charge, as the hot transfluid scalded from his spike, flooding her body. She moaned, body shuddering at the rush of fluid, filling, spilling out.

They both hung, for a long moment, panting, shuddering with aftershocks, the only movement between them a slow trail of transfluid leaking down Drift’s thigh.

“Done?” he asked, his voice flat. Deadlock’s voice, or before him, Drift from the gutters. Both who had done worse—way worse—to survive. He didn’t want to be reminded of those mechs, those times, but those experiences had made him able to endure, hard, underneath his seeming complacence.

“Done,” Taskia said. “Vurk. Find him some clothes.” She sat up, gasping as the movement shifted the spike inside her.

Drift nodded, dropping back to his heels, spike sliding from her, streaked with silver. He rose, stowing his equipment. Clean it later. Time to leave, while he could without having to kill them. He took the brown mass of fabric Vurk thrust in his hand, with an ironic nod, and bent to retrieve his Great Sword.

“Ilieth,” Taskia barked, gesturing at the silver smeared mess of her thighs, her belly. “Clean up this mess.”

Drift turned away. “Again,” he said, quietly, wrapping the cloth over his chassis, pulling the hood low over his face, making his expression unreadable. He could smell her fluid, on his mouth, under the wrapping. A reminder, perhaps. “My thanks.”


End file.
